Hi so I thought I would use this platform to write a book about my ramblings. First off let me introduce myself - because my life sounds perfect . I am a mum to three beautiful children, a wife to the most wonderful husband ever, I thought I had my dream job while studying further. I moved from South Africa to the UK. I have indoor pet bunnies that help me smile on a daily basis.
Something I have never talked about publicly, even though I know many go through this as well.
Healing from emotional wounds is some of the most meaningful work a person can do.
When we think of narcissist personality disorder, we understand that the discard is part of the spectrum of this mental illness. The soul sucking vampire is always awaiting their next victim. Praying upon empaths. We know that once they get their intended victim entangled in the nightmare of this self sabotaging, the discard is inevitable but the illusion of this is something that not a lot of people speak on. You’re never really discarded. The inevitability is that they’ll be back.
Since a few years, I am having therapy sessions. I have been through so many things, that I had to go into therapy. It is difficult to admit you're having trouble in doing thing you really wanted in your life, but was not able to do so.
Memoirs of my family’s struggle with Bipolar Disorder (Birth - 22)
My days have taken on an eerie repetition. First days, then weeks, and now even months are predicted with an accuracy that is unsettling. My soul aches, its cramped, even my dreams are poisoned with the monotony of this brutal cycle of repression and servitude. Coping with this was getting expensive, draining my pocket, and weakening my resolve. My freedom is an illusion, a quick and abrupt shift in psycho-chemistry to fortify my denial, to sedate the itch for liberation. It feels as though I have forgotten how to want, the very essence of desire siphoned from my heart. In an effort to avoid accepting my hopelessness I inundate myself with drugs. I feel a change within me, something violent trying like hell to alter my path. Any transformation would be welcome at this point as long as it shed my regret in the process. Regret and shame are terrible things to leave alone, they assimilate and cannibalize their host in a war for control. In its wake leaving something confused, twisted, and unmistakably insatiable. Eh.
Is everything alright? He skimmed the message on his dimly-lit phone screen. He sat up in bed. It was two in the morning. The darkness closed in, the only light being from his phone.
